


Take Me Back to Yours That Will be Fine

by Werelibrarian



Series: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werelibrarian/pseuds/Werelibrarian
Summary: The day Foggy brings the suit home, he wags his finger like Matt’s a puppy who’s struggling with the concept of housetraining. “Don’t open this,” he orders, rustling the garment bag. “I mean it.”“Foggy, without you in it, it’s just cloth,” Matt sniffs, offended.Surprisingly, there is actually a new-suit smell—something peppery and warm, with a ghost of dry grass, and Matt starts to reminisce on some of the things Foggy’s worn, how they’ve felt under his fingers. Better, how they feel on the backs of his hands, when he’s gotten inside Foggy’s clothing.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211634
Comments: 13
Kudos: 288





	Take Me Back to Yours That Will be Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic in the Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy universe, originally written for Elliceluella on tumblr.

The winter after they first get together, Foggy gets invited to speak at a law gala, and the apartment suddenly bursts into bouquets of menswear catalogues.

“Foggy, you’re already the best dressed in the building,” Matt wheedles, pulling his shirt over his head and wedging himself in front of whatever literature it is that makes Foggy mutter darkly about full break turn-ups and how they have no business touching chukkas. Matt doubts that’s actually English. He gets a leg over Foggy’s lap and both hands into Foggy’s hair. “Put that down and keep me company.”

Gratifyingly, the catalogue flies over Foggy’s shoulder so hard it hits the bookshelf.

***

The next week, Foggy skips three date nights in a row to see his other boyfriend at Barney’s, and when Matt comes to breakfast in nothing his smallest pair of boxer briefs, even though it’s winter and his nipples stand up like pebbles, Foggy only whistles at him once before going back to poring over fabric swatches.

“This better be one hell of a suit,” Matt says, dispirited, shovelling cereal in his mouth, “if it’s worth neglecting me over.”

That makes Foggy pause, and he pulls Matt, breakfast and all, into his lap and kisses him. Cold milk spills on his leg, and Foggy plucks the bowl out of his hand before bending down and lapping up the trail. “How can I make it up to you?” he asks, and his hot breath makes all the little hairs on Matt’s thigh stand up.

“Keep going,” Matt says, shivering.

***

The day Foggy brings the suit home, he wags his finger like Matt’s a puppy who’s struggling with the concept of housetraining. “Don’t open this,” he orders, rustling the garment bag. “I mean it.”

“Foggy, without you in it, it’s just cloth,” Matt sniffs, offended. 

“Good, I hope I can trust you,” Foggy says, leaning in and kissing him softly. “I’m going to the office for a few hours.” He rustles the garment bag again. “Don’t. I’ll know.”

Surprisingly, there is actually a new-suit smell that keeps distracting Matt as he listens to his screenreader in the living room—something peppery and warm, with a ghost of dry grass, and Matt starts to reminisce on some of the things Foggy’s worn, how they’ve felt under his fingers. Better, how they feel on the backs of his hands, when he’s gotten inside Foggy’s clothing.

It’d be wool, Matt’s certain of that. Wool with maybe some silk in it, so that Matt’s hands will glide slickly along the seams. Crisp cotton shirt, maybe with a textured weave, so that Matt’ll be able to hear it when the buttons slip through the buttonholes. When he kisses Foggy’s neck, his stubble will catch on the threads, as if even Foggy’s clothing doesn’t want him to stop touching.

Matt pulls the earbud out of his ear numbly. He’s got to get his hands on this suit.

He lingers in the bedroom doorway considering the garment bag hanging on the wardrobe door. He traces the zipper. There’s no lock on the tab and there’s no scotch tape or human hairs fastened across the teeth that would betray the fact that its been opened. He only pulls the zipper down half-way, just in case.

“Step away from the tailoring,” a mechanical voice barks.

Matt freezes, his hand halfway inside the garment bag. “Foggy?”

“I set up a web-cam and a speaker.”

Matt withdraws his hand and flips the bird to the empty room.

“That’s hot,” Foggy’s tinny voice says. “Show me your butt.”

***

The morning of the gala, Matt wakes with a feeling of weight on him. “I think it’s gonna snow today,” he murmurs, pulling Foggy’s arms tighter around his waist.

“Sure, old man,” Foggy says creakily, pressing a kiss to the bump at the top of Matt’s spine, but Matt can feel the layer of cold air pressing down on the city, and it’s not five minutes later that Foggy lifts his head to look out the window, and swears. “Dammit, I owe you a blowjob,” he says, which Matt collects right away.

The snow is starting to stick and chill the air by the time he gets back from brushing his teeth, so he crawls into one of Foggy’s sweatshirts and sticks his legs back under the blankets instead of finding pants, and spends Saturday morning with his head on Foggy’s chest. Listening to his heart, listening to the city at work and at play.

At lunch, Foggy reports that it’s gotten even heavier. He’s standing by the window, holding a mug of coffee and marvelling at the snow-globe scene, so Matt sucks on the side of his neck (nice and low where the collar will hide) and asks him to describe what he sees while Matt makes him come with both hands plunged into his sweats.

They get a little work done after lunch, but as soon as Foggy takes himself off to the shower, Matt’s imagination goes with him. The apartment’s cocooned by the thickly falling snow; there’s nothing much for Matt to listen to other than the way the water droplets hit Foggy’s body and his own hungry heartbeat.

“You gonna help dress me?” Foggy jokes, unzipping the garment bag.

“Do I look like a manservant?”

“No, but we could get you a little uniform. Come here,” Foggy orders, opening up a packet of new underwear, and Matt’s at his side in a second, hands on his hips smoothing down silky, snug boxer-briefs. He stays there as Foggy slicks back his hair and pulls a little glass vial out of a drawer.

“Is that?” Matt asks, fingers clenching involuntarily. The scent Foggy wore their first night together.

“Oh yeah.” Foggy uncaps the vial and tilts his head till it rests on Matt’s shoulder, and lets a drop of the scent fall onto his pulse. Immediately, Matt’s whole world is sex and roses and the bass-beat of Foggy’s rushing blood.

“Foggy.” It hurts, how aroused he is. “Take me to bed.”

“But my gala.”

“Fuck the gala. Better yet, fuck me.”

Chuckling darkly, Foggy spins Matt into the wardrobe door and holds him there with his body weight. A moan punches up out of Matt’s chest.

“You wanna help me get dressed or you wanna go sit in the living room?”

Matt’s throat clicks, but he nods. He’ll be good. 

***

First, the shirt. Foggy shrugs into it and then stands there expectantly until Matt reaches for the buttons. One by one he fastens them, and the fabric isn’t textured and inviting like he thought, it’s almost icy with smoothness. Then the socks. Matt gets down on his knees for those, tugging them high and then clipping elastic sock garters to them and snugging the loops around Foggy’s calves.

“Anything else you want while I’m down here?” Matt says angelically, his fingertips sneaking under the hem of Foggy’s underpants.

“Always,” Foggy says thickly, running his thumb over Matt’s lips. “But right now, just my suit, Jeeves.”

Perhaps sensing that Matt’s more interested in hindering than helping, Foggy steps into the trousers on his own, but lets Matt thread a leather belt through the loops. Matt fastens it with a jolting tug and a dirty, bitten-lip smile that causes an answering twitch between Foggy’s legs.

Foggy gets Matt to tie his tie (backwards, angling for a kiss the entire time) and put in his cufflinks and tie tack. Then there’s a waistcoat with more buttons, and the jacket.

“Oh my god what is this?” Matt says, sweeping his hands down Foggy’s arms. The jacket is lustrous and hefty, just like all of Foggy’s tailoring, but it’s so incredibly soft. Matt rubs his fingers together and can still feel something like the tingle of feathers. Matt wants to get naked and roll around on it.

“Do your thing and tell me,” Foggy challenges, so Matt actually does take his shirt off and plasters himself to Foggy’s back (for better data-collection purposes). He buries his nose in the collar and inhales, concentrates on the feel the fibres on the inside of his wrist, on his lips, and in the webs between his fingers, but he still can’t identify it. “15% Vicuña,” Foggy pronounces.

“And that means?”

“No idea, but if I almost came when Drummond put it on me, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to you.”

It’s doing everything to Matt, on every part of his body, all at once. “Take me to bed,” he pleads, tugging at the lapels and walking backwards. “You can leave the suit on.”

Chuckling, Foggy brackets Matt’s wrists and resists. “I’ve got to leave in ten minutes if I’m going to make it through this snow. Are you sure you want a short one now when you can have me all night when I get back?”

“Why not both?” Matt groans. He’s still not good at delayed gratification, and Foggy’s cheating by putting his arms around Matt’s bare torso, enveloping him in the scent of copper-steamed roses and the feel of soft, sensual cloth.

Just as Matt thinks the top of his head may blow off, Foggy’s phone screams for attention.

“Hello?” he answers smoothly. Matt grips himself and tries to hang onto his soul and listens as the apologetic voice say that they’re rescheduling the gala because of the weather. “Oh that’s a shame,” Foggy says, backing Matt up against the bed and then making the mattress dip with a knee between his spread thighs. “No, I haven’t left home yet. Yeah, I’ll do that. You stay safe too. Bye.” His phone lands with a soft wumph on the far side of the bed. “Aren’t you a lucky boy,” he purrs, and he’d probably like to sound smug but Matt’s opening his belt with big jerking tugs and it makes his voice wobble.

“I want,” Matt pants. He’s too far gone even to give words to his desires. He wants to be engulfed—in tactility, in sensation, in Foggy’s touch on him and in him.

Foggy stops tugging at the knot in his tie and crushes Matt to the bed, licking past Matt’s lips and dragging his fingers down Matt’s shaking sides. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

With Foggy holding him down, Matt’s in an orgy of textures and smells. There’s silk and cotton against his chest and vicuña against his legs and the fizzing scent of roses and heat emanates from Foggy’s throat. He feels the metal stud of the tie tack as a hard bite against his belly and zipper teeth of Foggy’s open fly scrapes deliciously against his painful erection. But the thing that’s the loudest siren-call for Matt’s lust and his love and his need is the strength of Foggy’s body under the cloth, behind the scent, pressed close, not letting him go. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

Matt smiles from the deepest part of his body, and reaches up to Foggy’s cheek for a soft kiss. “Take it all off. I just want you.”


End file.
